


Love and Hate

by phoenixburncold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Self Loathing, Short, little destiel, quick kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:34:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4928830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixburncold/pseuds/phoenixburncold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel does the only thing he can think of to stop Dean's self-loathing...even for a moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Hate

Dean hated himself. He could deal with that hatred, handle it, keep it in check. He could handle his anger, his weapons, his car. He was good at it. Reining himself in, pushing forward despite his feelings. Dean accepted his stubbornness, his anger, his ‘put your head down and move through this’ attitude. 

What he could not handle, what seemed to eat at him no matter what box he stuck it in, what shield he tried to put around it, was his self-loathing. 

All the time the people around him told him he shouldn’t feel that way, tried to point out all the ‘good’ he had done. Dean didn’t see it that way. 

He saw the good he had managed to pull out as barely scratching the surface to try to make up for all the evil he had done. For every innocent life he had taken, three lives needed to be saved. Dean had no hope in doing this. For every crisis he had started, two needed to be averted. Dean could not do this. He was filled with his own lack. He was disgusting, damaged, poison, pathetic, lacking, lost.

It didn’t matter how many times Sam assured him he was good. It didn’t matter how many times Cass reminded him he was the Righteous Man. Because for every good thing he had been called, there were at least two evil things he had been. And Dean believed in actions over words. His saw his true self, knew his true motivations. He was lacking, and everything he did was to make up for the deficiency, to try to turn the tables. 

He didn’t believe in fate or karma or God. Dean wasn’t sure what he believed in anymore, he figured it was best not to think about it. Hell, if he could, he’d try not to think of anything at all besides hunting. 

He missed being young; missed those days when the worst thing was a rouge demon or two that crossed his path, dealing with simple things like vampires and wendigos. Dean missed not being such a piece of worthless crap.

“Dean, you have to stop thinking like that.”

The hunter jerked, gripping the gun he had finished cleaning, finger just over the trigger. Taking a breath, he lowered the gun onto the table. “Cass, how many times do I have to tell you to stay outta my head?” Dean turned to see the angel a few feet away. “Why is it you always show up behind me anyway?”

“I don’t _always_ ‘show up’ behind you,” Castiel replied, walking forward. Dean merely glared at him. Castiel gave a sigh. “It’s strategic,” the angel said. “It’s better to appear behind your opponent to take him off guard.”

Dean moved closer, just a step away from the angel now. “Am I your opponent?” he asked softly.

“Sometimes,” breathed the angel.

For a full minute the two merely looked at each other, silent conversations passed between them. Piercing blue gazed into murky green. Two stubborn beings – each believing themselves unworthy of the other, each vehemently believing the other was far too pure for them, neither understanding why the other didn’t see how incredible they were.

“Did you want something?” Dean finally asked.

“No,” Castiel replied simply.

Dean sighed, blinked, and moving past Cass. “Then why are you here?”

“To see you.”

That was it. Those three words had the power to both break and heal Dean all at the once. There were only a few words that could be stringed together that had the power to do that to the hunter. Dean shifted to drop the rag he had cleaned the gun with into the bag near the door. He closed his eyes, back to Castiel, trying not to let the angel know how much those words destroyed and repaired him.

It didn’t matter, though. Castiel could read Dean like book, even without looking into his mind. Over six years they had known each other, six years to learn mannerisms, the minute details that revealed their emotions, the physical manifestations of their inner thoughts.

Dean had mere seconds to register Castiel’s hand on his shoulder before he was physically turned. Castiel kissed Dean with enough force to push Dean back against the wall. The angel kissed the hunter, trying desperately to wipe out the self -loathing Dean carried with him, draped over him, as familiar and worn as the old army jacket he wore now. Castiel tried to pour all his love into that kiss, tried to say all the unspeakable things, tried to pause time, and make Dean forget the world, his only connection to life being their lips and tongues.

And for several moments it worked.


End file.
